"And fade into the light of common day."

We knew, when we had lost sight of Jerash, that the romance of our journey was over, although we had still before us three days of the happiness of an open-air life, and of being face to face with Nature in her wilder utterances. We were bound for Es-Salt, across the fertile land of Gilead, and over some of the highest ground east of the Jordan; but we could not but feel that, having looked upon "the giant forms of empires on their way to ruin," all else must seem commonplace, so far, at least, as it was associated with humanity. The land had relapsed into the hands of a people perhaps even more rudimentary than that from which it had been wrested, or, so far as the city of Es-Salt was concerned, into the worse savagery of a veneer of Europeanism.

We were not sorry to have to retrace, for {146} some two hours, our steps of last night, and so recover some of the impressions which we had lost in the gathering twilight. We halted, for a short time only, at the fords of Jabbok, after which we followed a steep path for about half-an-hour, and then began to descend into the Wady El-Mastaba, a desolate gorge, shadeless and hot, from whence we were glad to escape again into the open, passing a few huts, which constitute the village of Mastaba, which owes its existence to the spring Ain El-Mastaba. Again another gorge, the Wady Umm Rabi, also with its spring; and a third, and more important wady and spring, with its village of some thirty huts, Er-Rummana, which yesterday we had seen only in the distance. It is inhabited almost entirely by Turcomans, who, as usual, betray their nationality by the scarlet and orange touches in their dress—an agreeable change from the perpetual blue of the Arab. These nomadic tribes are to the settled Turks as the Bedu to the fixed population of the Arabs. They are fair, of less pronounced features than their Semitic neighbours, and most numerous in the north of Syria. They are occupied partly in agriculture, but more especially in cattle and camel rearing. We {147} passed some women at a spring, and their manners struck us as having something of Circassian moroseness.

Just beyond the village the horizon widened, and showed, away to the west, the distant Samaritan hills, half way between us and the Mediterranean.

Presently we came to the edge of the tableland, and saw far below us the fertile gorge of Wadi Sal?hi. Here, we had been assured, we should find a beautiful waterfall, 60 feet in height, and embowered in creepers—a phenomenon almost unknown in Palestine. We never saw that waterfall; and we had a secret theory, some of us, that "Someone had blundered," for we were, moreover, required to descend a precipice calculated to disturb the nerves of even such experienced travellers as we considered ourselves to be. Some traces of a passing donkey were the only argument which—about half way down—seemed to be in favour of a prospect of ever reaching the bottom, which, however, was in course of time safely achieved. We were much impressed by the agility of the baggage animals, which clumsily, rather than heavily, laden, and wisely abandoned by the mukaris, picked their way as skilfully {148} and daintily as cats, although it would be difficult to say whether the loose shale that crumbled beneath one's feet, or the polished rock, which offered no foothold at all, was the more disconcerting.

Down in the valley we found abundant shade, and the bushes were fresh and green, but the water in the wady was so low and muddy that we were the more convinced that we had entirely missed all traces of the waterfall. The horses, after the recent excitement, were thankful to drink, and we gladly spread our luncheon and made some coffee. In missing our waterfall we had also missed an interesting cromlech, said to be 13 feet in diameter.

About seven hours after leaving Jerash we entered the Wady Er-Rumemin, where we forded a brook which serves to turn two or three mills, and waters the small plain into which the valley finally opens. Here we found the first traces of Christianity since leaving Madaba, always excepting the locanda at Amman: an orderly village with a Latin and a Greek church, school, and presbytery, well-planted olive grounds and neatly-kept vegetable gardens. We were already late, and dared not stay to examine a group of ruins to the west of {149} the Latin church, still less others which, we were told, lay at a little distance.

Leaving the village by the right bank of the wady, now called El-Hor, we climbed a steep hill, and found ourselves in a beautiful oak wood.

As over a score of varieties of oaks are found in Palestine they are somewhat difficult to distinguish, but some at least of these were of the species quercus ?gilops, having acorns with scales, the cups of which may be familiarly described as looking like miniature pineapples. They are used in tanning, and, as they form quite an important article of commerce, the trees are treated with more respect than is usual among the destructive fellahin.

During the winter one meets, coming into Jerusalem, whole caravans laden with great roots of trees, dug up for sale by the peasants of the mountains, and from this, as well as from tradition, we may well suppose that whole districts have been denuded of their forests. We are told, however, by various authorities that woods as we know them, lofty, as well as thick with undergrowth, have never existed here, and that such wood as we were now passing through is of the normal type, the growth open and scattered, and the trees thick rather than {150} high. The undergrowth seemed to consist largely of dwarf oak and terebinth, and as we progressed farther, and the wood became thicker, of pine and thorn.

With thick foliage on either side, and lofty hills before us, we hardly realised that the sun was setting when it was suddenly night. Our cavalcade closed up together, and those in front were constantly calling back to others to beware of stretching branches or other difficulties of the path. The very horses, with the instinct of self-protection, in a country where other protection does not exist, kept close to each other. Our officer hurried to the front at sound of voices and movement, the mukaris brought up the rear, and the Lady's horse was secured by a rope to that of one of the men. An opening in the trees revealed a camp of charcoal-burners, and as we once more began to ascend we could see the lurid flames of others of the same trade, lighting up the surrounding hilltops, and making the darkness around seem all the more substantial. It was a darkness which might be felt. We knew, from occasional contact with the branches, that we were still in thick woodland, and as we began to climb once more, the path was so narrow and so perpendicular that our horses {151} could go only in single file. All but the Professor and the Lady dismounted, rather from humanity than for safety, for the animals' sense of direction was better than ours. As usual on occasions of anxiety, no one spoke. Suddenly a shout arose out of the darkness, and the horses halted; while those on foot pressed on to know the cause, and the Professor, who was in advance, sent back his electric lantern. One of the baggage horses had found his bulk too great for the narrow passage, and the way was blocked by his entanglement. It took some time to set him free and to ascertain that nothing was lost from his various burdens. As we waited in the dense blackness of the wood, the poor animals struggling for foothold on the steep ascent, the smell of the hy?nas was almost nauseating, and the cries of troops of jackals, answering each other out of the darkness, lent a weird touch to our surroundings.

Presently the obstacle was removed, and we were able to continue in the direction of our oriflamme—the spark of light which showed that the Professor, with his lantern, had reached a spot where he could safely await our arrival. A fervent Alhamdul-Illah! ("God be thanked!") from one of our mukaris bringing up the rear, showed {152} that the horses at least were safe; and in a few minutes the stragglers on foot had joined the group, one at least having special cause for thankfulness, as he had had a very narrow escape from a fall over an unsuspected precipice. To see each other was still impossible, and a startled wain es-Sitt? ("Where is the Lady?") uttered close beside her, almost gave her pleasure, not from any desire to give trouble to her friends, but rather as assurance that she had not already done so, for there had been moments of which some of us hardly yet felt competent to give an account.

The look backward, from the high ground we had reached, was a spectacle not to be forgotten. Three huge fires flamed high against the great dome of night, which, now that we were out in the open, was perceptible in the clear starlight, and no longer the wall of dense blackness which had seemed to press against our very eyeballs. Moreover, behind us, to the north-east, the moon was rising from behind the Jebel Osha, a mountain 3595 feet high, associated with the prophet Hosea, said to have been born and buried here. The Bedu have a wely containing his grave, about 16 feet long, for all the great men of old were giants, and here they annually {153} sacrifice sheep in his honour. We felt, as we heard the story, that a sacrifice to the rising moon would be less of an anachronism than we were accustomed to suppose, so thankful were we to have some notion of where the next step would lead us.

It seemed as if Es-Salt were extraordinarily remote, and we asked Khalil if we were not near, with a faint hope that a light we could see away down in the valley might represent the windows of the convent upon whose hospitality we counted, and when he replied: "After two hills," we were even inclined to suppose it a fa?on de parler, equivalent to "by-and-by." However, he was right enough, and we had to descend and climb, and again to descend and climb before, below, up the valley to our left, the town became visible. The light we had counted upon, proved to be again that of charcoal-burners, and a most Satanic spectacle it was, for we came near enough to see a group of figures dancing and leaping against the flaming background.

The last descent was somewhat of a pendant, except that it was on open ground and by moonlight, to our perpendicular ascent in the wood, and a row of telegraph posts at the bottom seemed to add insult to our injuries: the affectation {154} of an effort at civilisation which we felt had been better expended in the clearing of a few rocks and the construction of, let us say, some kind of path. Again, most of the party dismounted, and it was interesting to observe how cleverly the animals picked their way, even the laden baggage animals. When now and then they went, for convenience, a little wide of the ultimate point, we noted with interest how they came at a call from the mukaris—each animal having his own name, to which he readily responded. It may be mentioned in passing that, so willing and intelligent were our friendly quadrupeds, that the only whip in the cavalcade was never used during the whole expedition but to reprove the moral obliquities of the Professor's horse, who took long to recover from his jealousy.

It was some consolation, in riding through the long town of Es-Salt, to find that its inhabitants were still up. They were, in fact, celebrating a festive occasion—the engagement, or, perhaps, more correctly, the sale, of the daughter of some prominent townsman. We could learn no particulars of the transaction, but to judge from the extreme gaiety of the groups gathered about a flaming bonfire in an {155} open space, it would seem to be satisfactory to both parties—meaning, of course, the bridegroom and the nearest male relatives—father, uncle, and brothers—of the bride, for she herself was not likely to be consulted in the matter.

The kindly parish priests of the patriarchate, like those at Madaba, received us with ready hospitality; one of them even vacated his own room for the use of the Lady when it was ascertained that the Sisters of the Rosary, who could more conveniently have accommodated her, had closed their doors for the night.

We had time next morning to make some small acquaintance with Es-Salt. Although it is a town having a large fixed population (10,000, which includes 3000 Christians) we were struck by the anomalous fact that a large number of the people looked like Bedu. The men had the slender build and finer features we had met so universally since crossing the Jordan, and the women had the much-tattooed faces, and even the long, trailing skirts, we had met all over the Belka. Although it is the seat of a kaimmakam (governor), and has a Turkish telegraph office, it seems to be still in spirit, as until recently it was in fact, in opposition to the Government. Burckhardt, {156} who was here nearly a century ago, speaks warmly of the hospitality of what he calls the "Szaltese," who were then Bedu at heart, and even in dialect. He says their public hospitality may be estimated at about ￡1000 a year, collected from the people, and adds that were they subject to the Turks more than that would be extorted from them for forced entertainment. They had lately withstood a three months' siege by the Pasha of Damascus. Then, as now, they were engaged in three branches of commerce: the collection and sale for export of sumach leaves, used largely for dyeing purposes; the weaving of carpets from the wool of their own flocks; and above all, the preparation of raisins.

It was quite a useful enlargement of notions to most of us to find that the familiar raisin used in puddings is not, as the grocers spell it, "Sultana," with some vague notion of an Oriental association with the Sultan, but Saltana, and that it comes almost entirely from Es-Salt. The fruit used for the purpose is a small grape without seeds. They are spread out as soon as picked, and then turned over and over, with fingers dipped in olive oil until they are all impregnated in every part. They are {157} then dried on wood ashes,—the wood employed being the oak or terebinth—collected in baskets, and then spread out to dry on a well-trodden earthen floor. Two and a half kilogrammes (a kilogramme is about two pounds and a fifth avoirdupois) cost, on the spot, twelve piasters, or about two shillings, less, in large quantities.

Another article of commerce is a very strong tobacco known as "heesh," from the Arabic word for the forests where it is cultivated. It burns so badly as to have given rise to a proverb applied to a man or a subject which puts a stop to conversation: "It is heesh tobacco; do not speak!"

A minor industry, the manufacture of rosaries, has originated in the abundance of certain kinds of hard wood.

The situation of Es-Salt is 2740 feet above sea-level; but the town itself lies in so deep a gorge, the mountains rising like a perpendicular wall on either hand, that we asked the padre whether the place were healthy, and he pointed out that the town extended, in fact, along two valleys—the Wady Osha, and a narrower wady, much less airy, and consequently less sanitary, as had been proved again and again in times of epidemic, when cholera and influenza {158} have lingered and recurred long after they had ceased in the town itself.

The water is good, and very abundant, the town spring being the finest we had seen in the country.

Es-Salt, the seat of a bishopric, was not important till the Crusades. A fine mausoleum, known as Sara, is said to be of Christian origin; and there are the remains of a church, hewn in the rocks, with many scattered rock tombs. The castle dates only from the thirteenth century, when it was rebuilt after destruction by the Mongols of the ancient fortress, which may have withstood Saladdin.

We were quite sorry to take leave here of our silent Circassian, who had always shown himself kindly and capable, but it seemed that his duty ended at Es-Salt—and, indeed, his services were no longer requisite. We noticed several Europeans in the town, probably merchants bringing raisins for export, or possibly grapes—for we had had some for breakfast of very unusual quality, and what a gardener would call "well grown," which seldom happens in this country, where the vines are most often not raised from the ground, so that the under side of the bunch, though well ripened by {159} the warm, dry earth, is flat, and not always well coloured.

Considering the amount of commerce with other places it seemed to us to show an almost insolent—perhaps it was only an ignorant—indifference on the part of the inhabitants that they should make no effort whatever to improve the approach to Es-Salt. We left the town by a track but little better than that by which we had approached it—a track which would have spoilt the business of any decent stone quarry. The immediate exit was over a series of ash-heaps and middens, across which the women were trailing their long skirts with entire composure. Next we mounted a steep ascent over polished rock or scattered shale, just as it happened, and then, after a short distance on level ground, we began a long and difficult descent into the deep gorge, which more or less we followed all the way to the plain, that of the Wady Shaib, now absolutely dry, but which must be in winter, judging from the nature of its bed, a rushing torrent, losing itself finally in the Jordan.

About an hour from Es-Salt we met a boy with a laden donkey, which we passed with some difficulty, and a little farther observed a {160} spring of water and a khan. There was some question as to whether we should meet with any water in the only other spring upon our route; but it was obviously too early for luncheon, and we continued our way, passing on a hill, to our left, a wely dedicated to Shu'aib, diminutive of Shaib, the Arabic name (used in the Koran) for Jethro, who gives his name to the wady—why is not obvious.

About noon we reached the Ain Es-Shech, and our horses were not slow in discovering that water of a kind was to be had. There was, at all events, welcome shade from a magnificent, wide-spreading fig-tree, the branches of which, growing close to the side of the hill, were available as couches and resting-places for half of its height. We boiled the water again and again, and fished out all its most striking disadvantages, though some were, unfortunately, less obvious than the microbes during a recent cholera scare at Bethlehem, which were reported by those personally interested in the quarantine question to be "as large as a napoleon."